Placed On This Isthmus Of A Middle

Praise From A Friend, Or Censure From A Foe, Are Lost On Hearers That Our Merits Know.

To Wake The Soul By Tender Strokes Of Art, To Raise The Genius, And To Mend The Heart

The Young Disease, That Must Subdue At Length, Grows With His Growth, And Strengthens With His Strength.

Beauty That Shocks You, Parts That None Will Trust, Wit That Can Creep, And Pride That Licks The Dust.

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.